


One More Cup of Coffee

by charmtion



Series: Querencia [5]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: ... in the Kitchen, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, College, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Jon and Sansa Are Not Related, Mild Kink, Morning Sex, Professor Snow’s Magic Tongue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-10
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-19 01:36:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22203136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: ‘Thinks about what else is hiding under her jeans. Handprint on her arse. Little love-bites on her inner thighs. Ruby-bright against the milk-white skin. Smiles to himself now. Slides toward her on soundless feet.’Jon and Sansa. Saturday morning. Sunlit kitchen. Sexy smut with a hint—okay,okay—more than a hint of sweetness.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: Querencia [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1556566
Comments: 17
Kudos: 86





	One More Cup of Coffee

**Author's Note:**

> > Here you go: something **HAPPY** for once, hurray! ☀️

Somewhere foreign yet familiar, the world in which he wakes. Sunlight spilling like honey through the half-drawn curtains: thick and warm and good as the sheets and throws and wine-dark pillows tangled all around him.

Cool air drifting in through the open window. Carries all the smells of the city; but there is a sweeter tang to it, too. Scented candles long blown out. Tendrils of their scent — vanilla, meadowsweets, thyme — still clinging to the quilt, the rug, the piles of clothes — his, _hers_ — scattered across the polished floorboards. Pats the bed beside him. Finds it empty.

“Sansa?”

Rolls, stretches. Rubs a hand down his face, rocks onto soles that burn and ache from the fray of yesterday’s commute. Sifts through the bottom drawer of the big pinewood bureau, chases up the echoes of his voice with a yawn. Finds a pair of his sweats, shrugs them on. They smell of her — vanilla, meadowsweets, thyme, lemony hint of washing powder — brushing soft against the hard lines of his hips.

“Sans?”

In the kitchen. Ankle-grazer jeans, an old flannel, hair a messy pile atop her head. Those golden hoops in her ears: dangling, dipping, shimmering like gilded water in the sunlight. Busy hands. Brown bag on the counter; oranges scattered beside it. A pot of coffee, ripped-open milk. Two mugs next to the sugar bowl. Somehow the sight of _that_ makes his heart explode in his chest — it always does.

 _Two_ mugs. Steam curling off them as she stirs sugar into one — _hers_ — leaves the other — _his_ — black as tar, just as strong.

He watches a moment, fascinated by the mundanity — the sweet fucking _normality_ — of it all. Silver spoon. Sugar bowl. Steaming coffee. Sunlight limning it all in tones of gold and honey. Watches as she lifts up on one foot. Kicks the boot off the other. Hops a moment as she pulls at the laces.

Wandering eyes, he can’t help himself. Crook of her neck all soft and sunlit. Those damn glittery hoops swinging to and fro. Smooth shoulders, nipped waist, hips that fit perfectly beneath his hands. Long, lean lines of her calves twitching under her jeans as the last boot finally flies free of her foot.

Thinks about what _else_ is hiding under her jeans. Handprint on her arse. Little love-bites on her inner thighs. Ruby-bright against the milk-white skin. Smiles to himself now. Slides toward her on soundless feet.

Slots in behind her. Body flush against her back. Tremor runs right through her; little hiss of breath between her teeth. Fingers on the countertop, silver spoon clattering down between the mugs. He nips his lip to stop his smile spreading. Wraps an arm round her waist. Snakes his other hand past her hip, fingertips reaching for his coffee-cup. Grip loosening on her waist just a little. Hand tripping down over the buttons of her flannel shirt; thumb dipping between its hem and the button of her jeans.

“Jon…”

Hint of the gravel she uses in her seminars at the very edges of her voice. Just enough to get him hard. Filling out his soft, grey sweatpants; fighting the urge to grind up against her backside like a schoolboy. Familiar urge. Familiar fight. Sweatpants, suit-trousers. Lecture-hall, her kitchen. Makes no matter. Hint of _that_ gravel and he’s a wolf run mad by the moon: hard and hungry — _achingly_ hungry.

“This for me?”

Breathes it against her throat as he slips one hand round the coffee-cup, the other down her jeans. She tilts her head back. Breathy little moan. Fingertips on scalding bone-china; thumb circling between slick, hot folds. Shimmy of her hips. Thighs spreading a little wider as he cups her in his palm.

“ _All_ for you,” she whispers. “Coffee… _and_ my cunt.”

Gives a sound of mock-shock. “Miss _Stark_.”

“Did I say a bad word, Professor Snow?”

Rumbling growl low in his throat. “You did.”

“Does that make me a bad girl?”

“Yes,” grits it out against her neck. “It _does_.” Teeth nipping at her earlobe now; fingers dragging away from the coffee-cup to trail up her arm. “It makes you a very, _very_ bad girl, Miss Stark.” Hand slipping out from her jeans, thumb twisting free the button. “Tell me… what do bad girls get?”

God, he fucking _loves_ this. Routine of their wanting. Comfort of it all tangled up in how searingly white-hot the lust is spiking in his veins. Familiar urge to press a hand between her shoulder-blades, rip the jeans down her hips, squeeze a handful of pale, plump flesh till she whines and bucks back into him. Familiar fight, too — the struggle to keep it slow, steady as the flush of fire working its way into her cheeks.

“Inside,” she whimpers. “Want you _inside_.”

“Not until you tell me what bad girls get, Miss Stark.”

“You _know_ what bad girls get.” Impatient whine, bucking back into him before he’s even pulled the zipper down on her jeans. “Just shut up and fuck me… _please_.” Bowed down on her elbows now, cheek flush against the countertop. “Please, Jon.”

“Please?” Dark smoke, the way his voice pours from his throat. “Do you think _please_ is enough to excuse whatever rudeness just came out of your mouth, Miss Stark?” Skates a fingertip across the small of her back beneath the flannel shirt. “Hmm?” Hooks his fingers into the waistband of her jeans; pulls them down over her hips, inch by inch. “I am waiting for an answer, Miss Stark.”

Shakes her head, scrapes up from her cheek to rest her brow to the countertop. Fingers cramping on its edge; bones shifting in the small of her back. Muscles tensing beneath the skin as he pushes her jeans midway down her thighs. Runs his thumb back up over her arse, slides it under the lacy waistband of her thong. Pulls it slightly. Enjoys the little gasp she makes as he lets it ping back into place.

“Use your words.”

“ _No_ ,” huffs it. “No, it’s not enough.” Swivels her hips as he hooks the thong on a fingertip, drags it slowly down. “I’m sorry, Professor Snow.”

“For what?”

“Being rude.” Bare feet doing a little dance on the kitchen-tiles as his hand dips between her thighs. “For saying bad words. For saying fuck. _Oh_. For saying — ”

“Yes, Miss Stark?”

“ _Cunt_ ,” sings it. “I’m sorry for saying cunt.” 

Draws back just enough to give him space to sink to his knees behind her. Does it. Slowly. Hands inching down her jeans, her underwear. Bit by bit. Dark fabric pooled at her ankles, covering her little dancing feet. _Good girl_. Murmurs words into her skin; mouth grazing the milk-white stretch of her thigh. _My good girl_. Stops her dancing as his tongue licks upward; long, lean lines of her calves straining taut as she arches back against his face.

Lets her reach back a hand, twine her fingers into his hair. Gives her what she wants for half a breath. Feels her melt against his mouth. Then he slots a grip on both her hips, manoeuvres her till she’s spun round to face him. Tangled up in her jeans. Leant back against the counter, breathing hard, scowling at him, fingers grappling for grip in his hair. He blinks up at her innocently, hands gliding from her hips to hook round her thighs. Keeps his gaze fixed on hers as he leans back in.

“Jon…”

Ghost of a kiss. Glancing. Pulls back. Wicks his tongue across his lower lip. Fingers kneading her thighs. Bird-tilt of his head as he stares up at her. Drunk on her scent — vanilla, meadowsweets, thyme, lemony hint on salt-hot flesh — as he rolls a thumb across her clit, slips a finger inside her. Another. Pearl of her teeth on the pink of her lip; bites down hard as she watches him breathlessly.

“Yes, Sansa?”

Flutter round his fingers. Squeezing tight even as she scowls down at him. Gazes up at her, tries to bite back his groan at the sight of her: all sunlit shades of sex-flushed skin and lust-blown eyes and kiss-bruised lips. Jesus _fuck_. Hides it by burying his face between her thighs; growl vibrating in the plush kiss he lands on her clit. Fingers in his hair again, nails scrabbling at his scalp.

“Mm, _fuck_.” Little hitch in her throat. “Fuck!”

Smug glow settling across his chest. “You like that?”

“No, Jon! _No_.”

“What?” Rips back from her immediately, panic tangling his tongue. “Baby? What — ”

“We haven’t got _time_ for this!” Follows the jab of her finger; glances over his shoulder at the sun-splashed wall. “Your session’s at ten — your _first_ session, Jon.” Wriggles in his grip, tuts as he groans. “Jon, _no_. You can’t miss it. I won’t let you — _Jon_!”

“Sansa, _please_.”

But she’s slapping his lips away from her thighs. Hooking a grip on his jaw. Dragging him up from his knees. He lets her — gracelessly. Hangs his head like a sulky schoolboy as she pinches his fingers off her hips. Widens his eyes at her, works to put some smoke in the ink-dark depths. Wobble in his fucking lip — would work _that_ in if he could. Anything to get what he wants.

“No.” Raises her brows at him; even as she sighs at the settling of his hands back on her hips. “Drink your coffee — then you have to _go_ , Jon.”

Jags her flush against him. “Coffee’s cold. Need to make another.”

“Jon…”

Skates a kiss to the corner of her mouth. “One more cup of coffee… then I’ll go.”

“Fucker,” breathes it. “You utter, _utter_ fucker.”

But she’s smiling. Feels it against his lips as their kiss deepens. Hands on her hips, lifting her up onto the countertop. His own smile widens, breaks into a chuckle as she curses at the tangle of her jeans, kicks them off her ankles. Wraps her thighs round him, hand at his nape to jerk him closer. Other hand scraping down his belly, heel of it pushing at his sweatpants. Hiss of breath between his teeth as she strokes a palm round his cock; gives a soft little twist that has his eyes rolling to the back of his head.

“This for me?”

Groans as she whispers it against his cheek. Rocks his hips forward. Catches up a grip in her hair; fist of ruby strands against her nape as he searches for her lips. She kisses him fleetingly, pulls back to lean her brow against his own.

“ _All_ for you,” he murmurs.

“Make me come,” she whispers. “Have one more cup of coffee… then you are _going_ to your session.” Sucks on his bottom lip; pulls back in a way that makes him see diamonds and stardust and sapphire eyes burning up his fucking soul. “Do you hear me, Professor Snow?”

“Yes, Miss Stark.” Nods. Surges forward to find her mouth again. “Mm, yes, baby.”

“Good boy.”

Echo of a smile in her voice. Sounds of the city sifting in through the open window. Sunlight spilling like honey through the pushed-back blinds: thick and warm and good as her shape, her sound, her sigh — _yes, Jon, yes_ — tangled all around him.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Who doesn’t like a bit of roleplay amongst the coffee beans?! This felt… **nice** to write. Sunshine. Sparkly hoops. Sansa eliciting promises via any means possible. ([Yours to Keep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21686101/chapters/51722149) readers — yes indeed, Jon is all booked-in for some PTSD therapy sessions! 10am, Jonathan, do _not_ be late…) Hadn’t actually planned this one; but I was jamming away to [this lovely cover](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3oMb06O2wXo) of Bob Dylan’s _One More Cup of Coffee_ on a sunny(!) January day and here we go. Have actually already got another sequel in the series written, but we’ll wait a bit on that… for now, hope whoever is here ***** nods welcomingly at an empty room ***** enjoyed reading this little slice of sunshine! ❤️


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